Poetry

TOURIST

If I could annihilate distance,
All my loves would be fine.

He wants lovers from a foreign shore,
A hula boy,

Paris spring collections and so
Domestic affairs are forfeit.

A year is six months too long,
A half-world away

And the boy is still young.

I poured pure alcohol
Until his secret words were all displaced –

He shed them in my lap
Like a corset skin,

Or make-up drag.
He would let me down or take me back

Faster than his rucksack,
A small diversion on this journey leg.

When he goes,
I will be stamped there in his passport, an inky spot

On his recall, a small voice
In the chorus of his times.

The moments now are snapshot blur,
A countdown to departure lines.